Exit, Stage Left
by Sandra E
Summary: Character study. Sort of. Platform for that elusive Apocalypse, widely known as Story With Plot. Eww. PostGift BS.


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Title: Exit, Stage Left  
**Author**: Sandra   
**Spoilers**: _The_ _Gift_, season five.  
**Category**: Character study. Sort of. Platform for that elusive Apocalypse, widely known as Story With Plot. Eww.  
**Rating**: R [for language and sexual references].  
**Summary**: _The only completely consistent people are dead_. —Aldous  
**Disclaimer**: Don't own. Would appear on show by now, otherwise.  
**Author's** **Notes**: First Buffy fic. Knew temptation was too great.  
**Feedback**: Well, duh.  
**Etc**: Thanks to Vic for the beta.

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SPEAK, _MEMORY_—  
_Of_ _the_ _cunning_ _hero_,  
_The_ _wanderer_, _blown_ _off_ _course_ _time_ _and_ _again_  
_After_ _he_ _plundered_ _Troy's_ _sacred_ _heights_...  
_Speak_, _Immortal_ _One_,  
_And tell the tale once more in our time_.

—The Odyssey

You loved her, didn't you, mate?

She was the breath of temptation, the proverbial serpent to your Adam, the greener side of the fucking white picket fence.

You remember? The sweet curve of her glistening lips, her creamy, bare shoulders, and that shampoo-commercial hair bouncing obediently against her golden skin. Rhythm. That's what you two had.

And it's there still. That rhythmic beat of her warmth through your ice, like waves against an invisible shore. At times, her heart would beat for the both of you, even if she didn't know it.

And it shall beat nevermore.

Fuck. You're still that awful, bloody poet, you wanker. You don't have a soul, damn it. You have a brain. It's dead, but you have it. Use it. Whatever magic acts as your puppeteer still discharges life to those dead limbs. Arms, legs, head.

All useless when it came right down to it.

You were the dragon to her Beowulf. You were Paris to her Achilles. Judas to her freakin' Jesus. _Passions_ to her bloody _Another_ _World_.

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I'm _counting_ _on_ _you_, _Spike_, she said. 'Til the end of the world, cutie. You promised, you sod. You promised no one would touch the Little Bit while you were still around.

When was the last time you looked up the word responsible in the dictionary? When was the last time you even cared?

She was the gnat in your ear, though. The gristle in your teeth, the bloody thorn in your bloody side.

She was a bitch and a Slayer and your worst nightmare and, God, those eyes of hers.

Blue and green and gold, and you've seen them so many times you can almost remember the number of lashes decorating each eye.

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Just _say_ _yes_, _and_ _make_ _me_ _the_ _happiest_ _man_ _on_ _earth_, you told her once. That was back when you could touch her, when she loved you enough to belong to you. When that Sapphic witch of hers gave you a gift.

Gift.

What would have happened next? When Glory was dead and the Nibblet was safe?

Would she have come to your crypt, kissed you? Pressed her small, thin fingers into your bruises as you called out her name?

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You'll _find_ _out_ _on_ _Saturday_.

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What _happens_ _on_ _Saturday_?

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I _kill_ _you_.

You've killed two already. It was good. It was blood and power and life, but this one wouldn't have it. Same to you, with brass knobs on, mate. You hated her. She hated you more. You hated her infinity plus one. She was a Slayer, a killer, an enemy. Takes one to know one.

How could you win? How could you do anything but fall in love with her?

Ask again later. There's a Magic 8 Ball back at the crypt. Not that you'll ever go back there. Right?

She'll sleep in one now. Perhaps not a crypt—it's just the kid and a pile of bills now—but she'll sleep. You could be neighbors. You could sit at her grave every night, tracing her stupid name in marble or stone or whatever the Scoobies spring for.

But you're not the Poof.

No.

The Poof would have ran faster, struggled more, never failed, never given up, never surrendered. He wouldn't have let Buffy die. He would have pushed Dawnie off that soddin' tower without a second glance, and Buffy would have hated him.

But she would still be alive.

Not you, though. You soddin' let her die. Worse, you _made_ her die.

You'd rather she be dead, then hate you again.

So.

It's all your fault.

You're responsible. You. Not the blithering bint with the bad home-perm. Not the bloody wanker with Mr. Hyde syndrome. You, you, you, all you, you blinkin' idiot.

But you know what _really_ blows?

You're responsible—for her failure, her death, her pain—and she would've thanked you anyway.

And if she were alive, you'd tell her. You'd tell her to shove it.

You wouldn't wait anymore. You're not the type. You're still the Big Bad, baby. Still a vampire. Graduated from the School of Angelus summa cum laude. You'd find a way to get rid of this bloody chip in your noggin. Eventually. And then you'd show up in her bedroom one night—because Presto, No Barrier—and take her.

You'd make her ride you at a gallop until your legs buckled up and your eyes rolled up. Yeah, baby. She'd show you all those muscles you've never dreamed of, squeeze you until you popped like warm champagne.

And, yes, you'd beg her to hurt you just a little bit more.

Yeah.

Memento mori, William. Well, not you, because you're already dead, but you forget sometimes. She's got—_had_—that little fanclub of hers. Buffy the Vampire Slayer cult. Maybe she wanted to die. Because of them. How many times have you threatened to kill them, and her little dog, too?

You couldn't do it, oh no, because you let what you could not do interfere with what you could, but the Big, Bad God came along like a spider, and Buffy—it still doesn't feel natural to spit out those two syllables—couldn't take it.

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Always _have_ _your_ _weapon_ _ready_, _cutie_, _'cause_ _I_ _always_ _have_ _mine_.

Fe, fi, fo, fum, Slayer. Surrender all your goodies, luv.

You could never have killed her, though. Never. Never in a million years could you sink your fangs in her delicate, little Buffy-neck and drink. Breaking her neck was never an option, either. You'd never do anything to disturb that beauty, that curve of her profile, that strength that rips you apart every time you tear up another one of her photographs.

You could never kill her.

Never.

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To _kill_ _this_ _girl_, _you_ _have_ _to_ _love_ _her_.

You better stop smirking. The sun's almost up.

Your third Slayer.

Finally.


End file.
